


Gently Down the Stream

by fennecfawkes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Everyone Looks Bad on a Rowing Machine, Get Together, M/M, Morning Routines, Pre Canon, Unrepentant Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:32:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3961120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Room SB-4 at 4:45 in the morning five days a week was Phil's safe haven when it came to working out.</p><p>Unfortunately, no one told that to Clint Barton.</p><p>Not canon compliant. Not my characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gently Down the Stream

The world record for a 2000m row hovered somewhere around five and a half minutes. On paper, that sounded impossible. But since he’d started at SHIELD, Phil Coulson had been working to remove that word from his vocabulary. His personal record was six minutes and 42 seconds. If asked, he’d admit that was a pretty damn impressive record. But he wasn’t often asked, because Phil—well, everyone knew he had to be doing _something_ to stay in shape; all SHIELD agents had some sort of set routine. But no one really knew Phil’s. Part of that was the setting; his gym of choice required Level Four clearance and a numerical code from the director himself. And part of it was scheduling; SHIELD agents didn’t tend to sleep in, not even on weekends, but most of them weren’t known to begin their morning routine at 4:30, either. The biggest part of it, though, was that Phil Coulson—for being so snappily dressed and perfectly put together, appearance-wise—was an absolute mess the second he hit the machine.

His form, when he’d started, was dreadful. Some flailing was involved, and he hunched, and he twisted, and he did everything the professionals didn’t. So he found instructional videos and challenge-based exercise tapes on eBay—not very Government Agent of him, really, but it was useful, and soon enough, his form was on point. But that didn’t stop the sweat-induced cowlicks or darkened patterns on his shirt and shorts (also sweat-induced), and it certainly didn’t prevent the facial expressions. There was thankfully no mirror to stare at while he rowed, but Phil could imagine what he looked like. He guessed it was some grotesque combination of the faces he made when A) grievously injured and B) in the throes of orgasm. Sure, his confidence in himself may have appeared unshakeable in the field or at his desk or out with his coworkers on a rare night off. But when he was pushing his ass backward and dragging it forward while tugging at a rubberized plastic handle, knuckles whitening, chain clanking—that all fell away. Thus, Room SB-4 at 4:45 in the morning five days a week was his safe haven when it came to working out.

Unfortunately, no one told that to Clint Barton.

.:.

Phil had been the one to find Barton, though it had been Hill who’d assigned him to do so. Despite what a lot of handlers had to say about Barton—too mouthy, too reckless, too headstrong to work with—he’d always been a favorite of Phil’s, ever since their first meeting, when Barton talked his way out of cuffs and into a dive bar in Columbus, Ohio. In a darkened corner, over shots of horrible whiskey and pints of PBR, they’d discussed what separated SHIELD from the other alphabet agencies, and why Barton would be making an actual difference with his kill shots when his new employer was assigning them.

“Question,” Barton had said moments after the bartender had announced last call. He looked across the table at Phil, eyes half-closed and oddly trusting for having not known Phil for more than a few hours. “Are you the one who’s going to be giving me orders?”

“When I’m available to do so?” Phil paused despite already knowing the answer. He’d wanted a sniper at his ready for months, thus Hill’s assigning this pickup in the first place. “Absolutely.”

Barton lifted his glass and clinked it against Phil’s.

“That’s bad luck,” said Phil. “It’s empty.”

“Bad luck’s never stopped me before,” Barton said with a grin. “I’m in, sir.”

Phil steadfastly ignored how much he liked when Barton called him sir and looked away from Barton’s throat as Barton finished his beer.

.:.

It took an average agent about a year and a half to be promoted from one level to the next. Phil was one of the rare exceptions to be hired on above Level One; as a result, he, with his Level Seven status, didn’t count as a record holder. That was Jasper Sitwell, who’d gone from One to Six in five years. Phil never heard him do it, but he was sure Barton had a good laugh when he breezed past Jasper’s record in three.

“Doesn’t bother me,” Jasper muttered the day Barton reached Level Six. He and Phil were in the mess hall—the only good one, by Jasper’s exacting standards—and Phil was sipping the third coffee of the day while Jasper stabbed at his steamed broccoli. “Someone with perfect aim was bound to beat me out eventually.”

Phil figured he was supposed to say something about Jasper’s skills in espionage and hand-to-hand, but he was too distracted by Barton, who was sweet-talking his way into two slices of carrot cake from April, the spryest SHIELD employee Phil had ever met.

“Do you think his aim is better than yours?” Jasper asked, jabbing his fork in Phil’s general direction.

“I know his aim is better than mine,” said Phil, peripheral vision still on Barton, who was approaching their table. “I just wouldn’t tell him that.”

“Wouldn’t tell who what?” Barton sat down next to Phil. “Got you this.” He pushed one slice of carrot cake on its own plate over to Phil.

“Thanks,” said Phil. “Wouldn’t tell Fury that Jasper thinks he should’ve been promoted to Level Six sooner.”

“I never said that. I’m just—”

“Monaco.” Barton took a bite, chewed, and swallowed while Jasper gaped at him.

“Monaco?” Phil asked.

“2006,” said Barton. “Jasper was the SO.”

“The plot to destroy Monte Carlo?” Jasper sounded incredulous. “That op went off without a hitch! We took down ten AIM higher-ups that day!”

Barton shrugged. “That’s just what I heard. Without Monaco, you would’ve moved up the ladder sooner.”

Jasper sputtered for a second or two before picking up his tray and leaving. He was still muttering as he went. Barton took another bite of cake, attempting a perfectly innocent expression. Phil shook his head and couldn’t help chuckling.

“Monaco,” he said, “was one of the best things Jasper Sitwell’s ever done for SHIELD.”

“Oh, I know,” said Barton, smirking. “I just like fucking with him.” He licked a bit of frosting off his thumb. Phil tried not to stare and probably failed. “Hey, I have some range time scheduled later. 6 till 8. You in?”

Phil looked at his watch. “I’m in meetings till then. I can probably catch up with you at 6:30.”

“Cool.” Barton smiled. “Pizza afterward?”

“Fine by me.”

.:.

Range time with Barton was a more of a rare treat than Phil would’ve liked it to be. He knew that he’d never let anyone see him row, but he had no qualms taking the lane beside Barton’s, practicing with a pistol while Barton nocked arrow after arrow. A Barton shot was a thing of a beauty, and it kept Phil on his toes. They rarely spoke on the range. Phil let himself enter an ironically peaceful zone, and he’d guess that Barton was doing the same.

“I’m gross,” Barton announced at 8pm on the dot. “Showers before we go to your place?”

“Oh, now it’s pizza at my place?” Phil raised an eyebrow at Barton, who shrugged and grinned.

“Better snacks than my quarters,” he said. “Better couch, too.”

“Valid points,” said Phil.

Initially, it had been difficult to justify these dinner and movie nights with Barton. They tended to remind Phil of what he didn’t have with Barton, what he desperately wanted and really needed to forget. But it was too damn fun, and too damn relaxing, for Phil to give them up.

When the pizza was long gone and Phil was close to nodding off during the third act of whichever kung fu movie Barton had insisted on that night, Barton brought him back to full consciousness with a shake of the shoulder and a “Hey, boss?”

“Yeah?”

“Should I go?”

Phil waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll sleep here. You take the bed.”

Barton laughed, sounded uncharacteristically uneasy. “Nah, I can go back to HQ. You must wake up pretty early to be this close to out at 9:30, huh?”

“My routine starts at 4:30.”

“Shit. What do you do with all that time?”

“I work out,” said Phil before realizing his defenses had dropped pretty far downward. No one knew his routine.

“Yeah?” Barton cleared his throat. “Can I—I could join you sometime, if you want.”

Phil laughed. “No, no. Range time’s plenty. Really, Barton, I can sleep out here if you don’t want to leave.”

Barton paused. Phil let his eyes drift close for a moment. When he opened them, Barton was close, far closer than he’d been seconds before. “Do you want me to stay?”

Phil looked at Barton, Barton’s ridiculously appealing face and his bizarrely hopeful expression, and nodded. Then he shook his head. “I want—no. I mean, you shouldn’t.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Barton shook his head and smiled, clearly forced. “See you in the morning.”

.:.

Phil didn’t think too hard about what Barton had said before he left. He didn’t think about it again till he’d been rowing for six minutes and he was soaked in sweat, sweat that trickled down into his eyes and blurred his vision as he grunted and fell into some of his worse habits as far as form went. Still, he re-composed himself, whatever that may have looked like, and he soldiered on until the relative silence was interrupted with a bark of laughter.

Phil tried to ignore it, dismiss it as a figment of his imagination. But it didn’t work when the laughter persisted. He finished at seven minutes and fifteen seconds, fixing his expression into a glare as he looked up at Barton, who was now officially the only other person he’d ever seen in the gym at this ungodly hour.

(Ungodly to most. Fine by Phil. Until now.)

“Something amusing, Barton?”

Barton composed himself just enough to say, “Sir, yes, sir.”

“And what’s that?” Phil hopped up off the rowing machine and walked over to where Barton was standing. It was just a few feet away, but his legs still felt like they were filled with jelly, so it took longer than it might have otherwise. That just gave him more time to look murderous. Phil was good at that.

Not that day, apparently, judging from Barton dissolving into laughter all over again.

“It’s—” Barton caught his breath. “It’s—do you know what you look like when you do—whatever _that_ was?”

“I have some idea, yes,” said Phil flatly.

“It’s adorable,” Barton said, having the good sense to look embarrassed for a few seconds after having said so.

“Adorable.”

Barton nodded. “The most adorable. Which is weird. Because usually you’re just—you’re hot, OK? You’re really, really hot. Like, basically my favorite thing to look at. And this—I don’t think it changed that. Cute’s as good as hot. It’s just different.” Clint looked down. “Please say something before I keep talking about how much I like looking at you. My boss. My boss who I definitely can’t, you know, have.”

“You think I look adorable when I do—that?”

“You’re still stuck on that part?” Barton looked up at Phil.

“You did see it, right?” Phil asked. “It’s awful. It’s why I won’t exercise in front of other people.”

“We go to the range together.”

“That’s different. This is—it’s like I can’t control any part of me. It’s this full-body flail that I have to constrain and—wait, you _want_ me?”

Barton rolled his eyes and took a step toward Phil. From anyone else, it would’ve been an invasion of space. From Barton, it was quite the opposite, and Phil’s heart, which had just calmed its cadence, picked back up with the racing again.

“For being a secret agent,” said Barton, “you can be pretty dense sometimes. And this is coming from an ex-carnie.” He reached forward and patted the back of Phil’s head. “Sorry. The hair standing up was driving me crazy.”

“But apparently not repelling you.” Phil tried not to reach right back as Barton continued touching him, running his hand down the back of Phil’s neck, tucking the tag back into Phil’s shirt. “So I should start exercising in front of more people, then?”

“Oh, no, no, don’t do that,” said Barton. “Then I won’t feel special anymore.” His hand landed at the small of Phil’s back and stayed there. “I take it from the lack of you punching me that this is OK?”

“Technically, you’ve already broken a couple of SHIELD’s more stringent bylaws concerning agent and handler relations,” Phil said. “But I’m a Level Seven. I’d like to think the rules, strictly speaking, don’t always apply.”

“So you’re saying—what are you saying?”

“I wanted you to stay last night.” Phil stepped even closer to Barton, moving his hands to Barton’s hips. Barton shivered almost imperceptibly at the contact. “Not in the bed alone, either. But—we’re friends. Colleagues. It’s never seemed like the right thing. I never wanted to take advantage.”

“Oh, believe me, sir,” said Barton, “that’s not what you’re doing.”

“Call me Phil, OK?”

“Will you call me Clint?”

“I think I can handle that,” Phil said. “One request.”

“What’s that?”

“Please don’t kiss me for the first time when I’m this disgusting.”

“You’re never disgusting, Phil,” said Clint, smile widening. “But I’ll honor that request. You free tonight?”

Phil ran over his schedule in his head. He had a surveillance op in Glasgow that night.

“I had a work thing, but I’ll get out of it,” Phil said. “Want to go off book, get something that isn’t pizza and actually stay over for once?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Clint’s smile transitioned to full-on grin. “I’ll let you go get your ass handed to you by Fury for prioritizing a date over a mission.”

Phil flipped him off before picking up his towel and hitting the showers.

.:.

“You know...” Clint’s voice trailed off. His leg was slung over both of Phil’s, and he’d been running his hand over Phil’s chest for the better part of ten minutes, occasionally dropping his head to kiss Phil on one of his shoulders or collarbones.

“What?”

“Two things.” Clint shifted so he could lean his chin on Phil’s shoulder. Phil hadn’t been physically blanketed by anyone in a while. He could get used to it, he supposed. “One, it’s already close to midnight.”

“Yeah? I’m not wearing my watch, so I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“You’re not wearing anything.”

“I’m wearing you.”

“Touché.”

“Guess I’ll skip rowing tomorrow, then,” said Phil. “Need six hours and three coffees by noon or I’m useless.”

“I doubt that,” Clint said. “But it’s nice to know there are chinks in the armor.”

“Oh so many. What was the other thing?”

“Oh, I just thought you might want to know that you look way better when you’re balls deep in me than you do when you’re on a rowing machine.” Clint lifted his head to brush his lips across Phil’s. “Just for future reference.”

“You’re insufferable,” said Phil.

“Yeah,” Clint said. “But I’m your kind of insufferable.”

“You got me.”

“I’m glad,” said Clint, and he kissed Phil again, and Phil, more than he had ever been, was grateful for his own imperfections, because if this was what they resulted in—well, maybe they weren’t so imperfect after all.


End file.
